


Wrenched

by shihadchick



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-29
Updated: 2005-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bono/Larry, Zoo TV era. The shame of it goes straight to his back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrenched

The shame of it goes straight to his back.

* * *

 _Wrong_ , is all he can think. _This is- the biggest fucking mistake of all time._

If only he was talking about the album.

Which, yes, despite the difficult and exhausting birth, could quite easily have been their death knell. The end of the band, if not their friendships as well. But the album is great. He has to admit that, regardless of his initial misgivings. In fact, it's some of the best work they've ever done.

The mistake... the initial mistake is something wholly of his own making. Or as near as makes no difference, and the weight of it bows his shoulders. Dries his throat, his words, his voice. Stills his mind and the words he should have spoken. Should be speaking now.

The shame of it goes straight to his back.

* * *

The second time it happens, he half-crawls from the room, wrapped in guilt, wild-eyed and restless of hands, wincing even more pronouncedly at the echoing crash that is his own suite's door slamming closed automatically, wrenched from suddenly nerveless fingers. Moving purely on instinct he bites at his lip, half in desperate thought, mostly because he needs the pain, deserves it, owns it and earned it, and it’s with that thought in mind that he reaches abortively towards the bar and the tempting oblivion of alcohol, discarding the idea almost instantly, arms limp by his sides as he stands helpless in the middle of the room, pivoting uneasily, focusing on nothing, and most especially not the bed. Even as he craves quite desperately to fall (carefully) on top of the covers, to burrow in and not wake up for a very long time.

That would be most unbecoming, though. Inconsiderate. Unhelpful. Unfair.

 _Wrong._

He should think this through logically, work it out, _fix it_ , he thinks. The thought, most unfairly, does not help much. And the matter of how to fix it, well, that for one is quite beyond him at present.

An unadvisedly deep breath catches in his throat, seems to tear all the way through him to curl and hook into the spasming muscles in his back and he goes even stiller for a moment until it subsides just enough that he can move, can lower himself gingerly and with unaccustomed care into the closest chair, fingers biting into the unyielding upholstery in accompaniment to the sharp whimper that he, shamed, cannot help. It takes long minutes until he can unpeel the death-grip on the arms of the chair, exquisitely careful even as the last few shudders wrack him.

 _Damn it. Damn. It. Damned— damned. Is that what you are? Oh fuck oh fuck Jesus God. Fuck. It all boils down to that and there’s nothing simpler, is there?_

Sanity and logic collude, attempt to argue, but he's having none of them tonight, not now, not anymore, because this has gone too far and too long and _it stops now_. Firm. Decisive. Decision made. That's it, he thinks, and wonders that it should leave him feeling so hollow.

* * *

Walking like a beaten (broken) old man, he moves to his bed sometime later, several hours before the sun comes up, breaking through the thin hotel curtains. He's still awake then. No rest for the wicked, he thinks, surprising himself with a weary laugh, one that barely shakes his frame, and he turns his face into the pillow once again, praying for his mind to slow, to give him some surcease, and finally sleep claims him.

Awareness does not come with a flood, or a shout, or even some helpfully calm trickle of knowledge when he wakes again. In fact, it's something far more akin to a brick between the eyes. And the agony of muscles held rigid for far too long (stand up straight, Lawrence, be proud, _stand up_ ) races burning only seconds behind it.

It takes all his energy to groan and reach cautiously to the bedside table for painkillers. Water would require some combination of the kitchen and or bathroom and seems far beyond his ability right now, so he swallows the tablets dry before sinking back into his bedding, feeling ill and clammy and still violently, viciously embarrassed. Appalled.

He can hardly believe his actions now, in the cold light of day, or so he tries to tell himself, but it rings just as falsely as his objections the night before. He hadn't wanted to push Bono. Again. Hadn't meant to goad him, to argue and tease and taunt, to look up and see those eyes (that face, that spirit) right in front of him, in arm's reach. Within arm's reach. Within his arms. Hadn't meant to find out, after all these years, just exactly what it was like to kiss him. Body willing, spirit weak. So weak. And there'd been that addictive burst of sheer bliss, of earthly fucking perfection, before thought caught up to deed and delivered vengeance with pinpoint accuracy.

Yes, Bono had let him. Hadn't done more than murmur a brief purr of approval into his mouth, no arguments and no judgment, just whole-hearted acceptance and encouraging hands sliding under his shirt, broad fingers splayed over his shoulders, holding him tight and close and warm. Had done more than enough. The sweetly sinful rush of joy drowned instantly under a torrent of mortification, and he'd torn himself away, not even managing apology or excuse, striding out with his chin up, back poker-straight, burning eyes not seeing anything but escape.

It was not possible. It was not right.

Especially not right to have happened for the second time inside of a fortnight.

The more he thought about it (twisting, tangled in his bedding, hot and cold alternately with shame and frustrated wants) the tighter the knot in his back wound. _I want him. Like I'd want a woman._ Like a punch to the kidneys, the shock of it rippling through his whole body. _I've wanted him for a long time. Can't deny it any more._ Sinew and joint constricting into fearful knots, a mockery of good posture. _I do and I can't and I shouldn't and, Jesus, can I say no again?_

 _Because all he says is 'yes'._

The ache settles into the base of his spine, and he rubs one-handed, absently, making it no better.

* * *

He limps for the remainder of the week, snapping at the well-meaning and irritatingly over-attentive alike, all the while conscious of the fault gnawing within him. Fighting the teachings and habits of years, trying to navigate a course through the treacherous no-man's-land between what his church tells him and what his heart does. Debating back and forth inside his own skull as the tour moves ever onwards. Conscious of his susceptibility to temptation.

  
Forty days in, Temptation corners him in a private room backstage and knocks down his remaining barriers in short order.

* * *

He blames the continuing - increasing - aches and strains on the stress of touring again, on the physical exertion of putting on this show every night. He cannot bring himself to admit the show that he is putting on goes on far longer each night than it does for any of the others.

This shame is irrational, out-dated, foolish. Painful. Crippling. A souvenir of less enlightened times. It is his alone, and never to be acknowledged aloud, never to be let into the bed they will eventually share. Never freed from the unceasing circuit in the back of his mind to pollute anything outside his own body.

The shame of it settles deep into his back, and he refuses to let it conquer him.


End file.
